


Beast

by clysmian



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2019-01-03 19:41:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12153489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clysmian/pseuds/clysmian
Summary: One Warrior of Light's inner turmoil when facing the Crown Prince in the gardens of the Royal Menagerie.





	Beast

The sound of his voice makes you sick.

How dare this bastard make such assumptions about you. Claiming the two of you are the same. Relishing in the violence and suffering. _The suffering of others._

You have blood on your hands. You don’t deny that. But it’s the blood of cruel, unjust people, those who sought to harm others for their own gain.

You have nothing to gain from senseless violence. You’re better than this monster.

He keeps going, insisting, words dripping with venom - a venom that he earnestly believes to be the truth. His normally smooth voice rises in pitch and intensity, going down again just as quickly. He doesn’t seem capable of containing his twisted sense of glee.

This man is insane.

The more words spill from his mouth, the more your blood boils. _Don’t compare me to the likes of you,_ you spit. Life is not a game. People are not simply candles to snuff out for your own amusement.

Your sister’s words resound in your head. She thought you saw life as a game, too. That you are all fists and fury, too passionate about the wrong things, blind to the rest.

How would she respond to the crown prince’s statements, were she in your position?

A certain word leaves his lips, which twist into an even more crazed smile than before as he sees your reaction.

_Beast._

You clench your fists so hard your fingernails cut into your palms. Your teeth press together so hard your jaw begins to hurt, radiating pain into your skull. Your blood is rapidly approaching boiling point, and it is only through your years of training and discipline that you haven’t already pummeled him into a fine dust yet.

You are Xaela, after all. Your people are driven by endless conflict. Fighting is in your veins, in your fists, in every fiber of your being. When you left the Steppe six years ago, the people you encountered regarded you with fearful eyes, judging eyes - hateful eyes. You could hear them whisper as you passed. You could see the disdain written on their faces as you approached them for assistance. You could read the word forming on their lips.

_Beast._

Even now, you want nothing more than to wring his neck, and that is when realization hits you, much to your dismay.

You want to kill him and you can’t deny that you wouldn’t enjoy doing so.

It feels like a thick sludge has begun sinking through your esophagus. You can’t say anything back to him. You can hardly say anything back to your own self.

No... no. You’re not like him. There’s no way you could be. He is a twisted individual, causing hundreds of thousands of innocent people to suffer for his own amusement. He needs to be stopped. Justice needs to be carried out. That’s all there is to it.

That’s... all there is to it...

... You’re not even convinced of your own logic. Can you really carry out justice with your fists alone? Can you avenge the deaths of so many all on your own? Will the conflict cease?

You’ve never thought of yourself as a killer. You’ve been called a hero countless times - Hydaelyn’s champion, the Warrior of Light - and you’ve believed in your sense of justice all this time, always gone out of your way to help those in need, even at your own expense. Something your sister would chastise you for.

But the truth is, in order to save lives, you’ve had to take some as well.

That, by definition, makes you a killer.

_Just like him._

Is this what he wanted? Has he planned this all along? There’s no way that can be true, right? At least not ever since the moment you first set foot in Ul’dah... but Rhalgr’s Reach... Doma...

You shake your head, far too vehemently for him to not take notice. His smile widens, and his laugh almost sounds like a crazy giggle. He knows his words have reached their intended target, and he is none too subtle in displaying how pleased he is by your inner conflict. It’s almost as if he can peer right into your mind, invading every little crack, nook and cranny within your heart.

You thought you had better mental fortitude than that.

And yet, you still deny it, yelling from the top of your lungs as you shift into a fighting stance, bruised, bloody fists shooting up in front of you as you bounce on the balls of your feet.

He laughs and welcomes you with open arms.

You realize all you’re doing is proving his point.

...

In the end, he takes his own life.

You stand there, looking down at his body - and more precisely, the eerily serene smile on his face. A corpse should not be able to maintain such an expression.

And yet, he smiles, bloodily and lifelessly.

The others arrive and assess the situation. First, there is silence. Then, there is singing.

There is hope. There is a future for them. For all of them.

But even as you breathe a sigh of relief, you catch yourself struck with a strange sense of disappointment.

Perhaps it’s for the best that he did the deed himself rather than having to dirty your own hands with his blood (which you always envisioned as being venom instead). You would not have to deal with... with...

With what?

All you can think of now is that you will now have to deal with being unable to deliver the killing blow. Had you had your way, he would not have been left with a smile on his face.

As the others sing their joy and relief and prepare for the road ahead, you stand back, looking down at your hands. Not only are your knuckles bruised and bloody from fighting, but your palms are also smeared with red from your fingernails cutting into them.

Hands are tools that can be used to build as well as to destroy. You always thought of yours as tools to help people.

Even if you have to destroy many things in order to reach that end.

You close your fist. Your joints feel stiff. Your body is weary.

You spare the red flowers one last glance before you leave the Menagerie.

You walk out with the weight of regret on your shoulders, and you don’t like it one bit.

Perhaps you really are a beast.


End file.
